Since it seems to have stopped raining for a spell, there is LOTS of road work going on in our county at the moment. I keep having to come up with circuitous routes on the fly to avoid driving over gravel and fresh oil. I’m sure paint striping will come next.
The other day I noticed a couple guys doing survey work along a main rural road. No, not the “How strongly do you agree or disagree with the following statement?” survey work. The survey work that involves little tri-pods with eye pieces. I noticed the surveyors right away because both were wearing those day-glo orange beacons in the form of vests. As I got closer, though, I wondered about the logic of the younger guy’s wardrobe. On the top was his LOOK AT ME orange safety vest. On the bottom he was wearing camouflage pants.
TAKE 2:
Despite the economy and the still-too-high gasoline prices, it has been nice to see RVs and campers traveling hither and thither. To me, it’s a sign of summer and optimism.
The other day I was at a stop sign and had to wait for an enormous RV to pass by. It was one of those self-contained houses that looks like it could be going on tour with a drummer and bassist inside. As it slowly floated down the road, I noticed it was towing what I’ve been told in the RV world is called a “dinghy.” You know, a car to be used for out-and-abouting once the RV homestead has been hooked up, leveled, and settled into its site/slip for awhile. The dinghy in question? A Prius.
Either that’s one heck of a case of cognitive dissonance, or the RVer was trying desperately to quell the evil looks from fellow motorists disapproving of his guzzling gallons of a fuel with every rotation of his tires. Either way, I guess you gotta give the guy credit for supporting the economy.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The Pop-Its were fun
“Oh, that’s right,” I actually said aloud as the first missile thing exploded near the power line. “I’m the one who says ‘OH!’” And thus began last night’s adrenaline-filled 2nd Annual Driveway Fireworks Spectacular.
It was a group of 11 of us, none born-and-bred local. All were visitors or somewhat recent transplants from places where fireworks are limited to professional displays and tepid home-use explosives ho-humly labeled “Safe and Sane.” Not even sparklers fall into that category. So sheltered.
The instructions for last night were simple and eagerly embraced: bring whatever fireworks you want/your wife will allow. Our county has few restrictions and lots of rednecks, so the explosives offered for sale – legally – are eye-popping to say the least. No need to find an Indian reservation. Nope, roman candles, artillery shells, multi-shots, and fountains are as easy to find here as your nearest grocery store parking lot.
So when the sun finally set last night, our group of 4 men, 3 teenagers, 1 grade-schooler, and 3 slightly edgy women gathered on a rural driveway. A large trashcan filled with water was nearby, as were a garden hose and a Boy Scout. Safe and sane, that was our motto. We started at about 9:30pm. We finished just before the midnight curfew.
It started off calmly enough with the expected oohs and aaahs and applause. The women lovingly snickered as we observed the four men strategize and arrange and engineer the display. But somewhere around the 4th or 5th explosive, things sort of went downhill. Not literally, thank God, but close enough. By the end of it all, we had 5 misfires, 3 exploded launch tubes, 1 deck chair with a burn mark, and 1 husband banished to Hose Duty. And 3 particularly edgy women.
The misfires were, well, terrifying. The first one was due to a firework falling over and exploding horizontally instead of vertically. Did I mention horizontally towards us? The colorful sparks sort of danced closer and closer…to the spectators, to the house, to the table of undentonated explosives. Nothing caught on fire, thank God, and the ember on the deck chair quickly burned itself out before causing anything more than a scary memento. After a few minutes of analysis and regrouping and a return to normal breathing, the show resumed. But the women were just a touch more edgy.
Then a launch tube exploded. They aren’t supposed to do that. Again, it exploded towards us. With wide eyes, we decided maybe a break would be good, an intermission of sorts. So the sparklers came out. Sane enough, until you put one in your mouth and dance around. And no, Dan hadn’t been drinking. He’s just that way.
“I have a tax shelter that is a knife company,” Dan had casually explained earlier over dinner. I think that was after the breezy conversation about his doing target practice in his backyard from his living room couch. And no, honestly, he’s not a redneck; he’s an engineer. Nevertheless, the kids were reminded repeatedly that Dan is a “Don’t” example and that, no, sparklers do not belong in one’s mouth. Safe and sane? Hmmmm.
Further inspection of the destroyed launch tube and more analysis followed. Dave was laughingly but pointedly ordered to sit in a chair for the remainder of the show after the wives overheard him say, “OH, look at that. There IS an arrow and it even says ‘This End Up.’ How did I miss that?” Shortly thereafter I heard Rob say to him, “Thanks for doing this at YOUR house.”
As a group, I have to say I am pretty proud of the wives. We were rather quiet and un-hysterical, given the circumstances. Aside from the Banishment of Dave and the rearrangement of all the lawn chairs to be as far from the display as possible, we did a pretty good job of trusting the men to know what they were doing. OK, yes, at one point I sort of plaintively called out, “Can we be done now?” and I did sort of find myself in a fetal position in my lawn chair after one misfire. And I sort of flapped my arms around like Kermit the Frog when Dan was lingering around sparking fireworks, insisting on lighting others so we could have a consecutive display. And, well, yeah, there was also that one misfire where we all got out of our chairs and quickly backed away. OK, maybe we weren’t quite as nonplussed as I thought.
Safe and sane. Safe and sane. Maybe those killjoys in California really were onto something after all.
It was a group of 11 of us, none born-and-bred local. All were visitors or somewhat recent transplants from places where fireworks are limited to professional displays and tepid home-use explosives ho-humly labeled “Safe and Sane.” Not even sparklers fall into that category. So sheltered.
The instructions for last night were simple and eagerly embraced: bring whatever fireworks you want/your wife will allow. Our county has few restrictions and lots of rednecks, so the explosives offered for sale – legally – are eye-popping to say the least. No need to find an Indian reservation. Nope, roman candles, artillery shells, multi-shots, and fountains are as easy to find here as your nearest grocery store parking lot.
So when the sun finally set last night, our group of 4 men, 3 teenagers, 1 grade-schooler, and 3 slightly edgy women gathered on a rural driveway. A large trashcan filled with water was nearby, as were a garden hose and a Boy Scout. Safe and sane, that was our motto. We started at about 9:30pm. We finished just before the midnight curfew.
It started off calmly enough with the expected oohs and aaahs and applause. The women lovingly snickered as we observed the four men strategize and arrange and engineer the display. But somewhere around the 4th or 5th explosive, things sort of went downhill. Not literally, thank God, but close enough. By the end of it all, we had 5 misfires, 3 exploded launch tubes, 1 deck chair with a burn mark, and 1 husband banished to Hose Duty. And 3 particularly edgy women.
The misfires were, well, terrifying. The first one was due to a firework falling over and exploding horizontally instead of vertically. Did I mention horizontally towards us? The colorful sparks sort of danced closer and closer…to the spectators, to the house, to the table of undentonated explosives. Nothing caught on fire, thank God, and the ember on the deck chair quickly burned itself out before causing anything more than a scary memento. After a few minutes of analysis and regrouping and a return to normal breathing, the show resumed. But the women were just a touch more edgy.
Then a launch tube exploded. They aren’t supposed to do that. Again, it exploded towards us. With wide eyes, we decided maybe a break would be good, an intermission of sorts. So the sparklers came out. Sane enough, until you put one in your mouth and dance around. And no, Dan hadn’t been drinking. He’s just that way.
“I have a tax shelter that is a knife company,” Dan had casually explained earlier over dinner. I think that was after the breezy conversation about his doing target practice in his backyard from his living room couch. And no, honestly, he’s not a redneck; he’s an engineer. Nevertheless, the kids were reminded repeatedly that Dan is a “Don’t” example and that, no, sparklers do not belong in one’s mouth. Safe and sane? Hmmmm.
Further inspection of the destroyed launch tube and more analysis followed. Dave was laughingly but pointedly ordered to sit in a chair for the remainder of the show after the wives overheard him say, “OH, look at that. There IS an arrow and it even says ‘This End Up.’ How did I miss that?” Shortly thereafter I heard Rob say to him, “Thanks for doing this at YOUR house.”
As a group, I have to say I am pretty proud of the wives. We were rather quiet and un-hysterical, given the circumstances. Aside from the Banishment of Dave and the rearrangement of all the lawn chairs to be as far from the display as possible, we did a pretty good job of trusting the men to know what they were doing. OK, yes, at one point I sort of plaintively called out, “Can we be done now?” and I did sort of find myself in a fetal position in my lawn chair after one misfire. And I sort of flapped my arms around like Kermit the Frog when Dan was lingering around sparking fireworks, insisting on lighting others so we could have a consecutive display. And, well, yeah, there was also that one misfire where we all got out of our chairs and quickly backed away. OK, maybe we weren’t quite as nonplussed as I thought.
Safe and sane. Safe and sane. Maybe those killjoys in California really were onto something after all.
Monday, June 29, 2009
He plans to be “Jamal” next
We were standing at the counter at our local McDonalds when Randy, the middle-aged manager taking our order, asked Rob for a name to call when our food was ready. I did a double-take when Rob said, “Jose.”
Apparently, Rob decided a few days ago that when asked for his name in such circumstances, he will give a random fake name. Perhaps my nom de Facebook is rubbing of on him.
My double-take turned into a suppressed laugh and even more affection for my little cow town when I saw what Randy was writing down on the receipt.
H o s e and then after another wheel turned, a. Yep, “Jose” became “Hosea.” I’m not sure if Randy added the “a” to represent the “ay” sound, or if he thought for sure he had misheard Rob and that Rob had been named after one of the minor prophets in the Old Testament. Either way, it’s quite clear we aren’t in California anymore.
Apparently, Rob decided a few days ago that when asked for his name in such circumstances, he will give a random fake name. Perhaps my nom de Facebook is rubbing of on him.
My double-take turned into a suppressed laugh and even more affection for my little cow town when I saw what Randy was writing down on the receipt.
H o s e and then after another wheel turned, a. Yep, “Jose” became “Hosea.” I’m not sure if Randy added the “a” to represent the “ay” sound, or if he thought for sure he had misheard Rob and that Rob had been named after one of the minor prophets in the Old Testament. Either way, it’s quite clear we aren’t in California anymore.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
My souvenir is a pair of forks from the pizza joint
It might have looked like a pilgrimage, but really, it was just a road trip. Besides, I'm only about 150 pages into the second book.
After months of resisting, I finally bowed to girlfriend peer pressure and started reading the “Twilight” books. It's a romance series of sorts written for swoony teenage girls about drop-dead gorgeous vampires. I'm really not much of a romance reader, and I'm definitely not a vampire fan, so it wasn't until I was desperate for another distraction that I finally relented. My hair stylist is going to be thrilled at my next appointment to discover we can FINALLY chat about Edward vs. Jacob.
The books are set in the real-life town of Forks, Washington, up in the northwest thumb of my moist home state. I was looking at a map one night, locating it exactly, when I said to Rob, “Look – Highway 101 loops all around the Olympic Peninsula. That would be a fun road trip sometime.” And faster than you can say “early retirement” we had planned our route, made hotel and ferry reservations, and were trekking northward.
Our first stop was Port Angeles, right along a strait of water that separates us from the folks who say “eh” and have really cheap prescription drugs. It was a sleepy little town that looks to be dying a slow death while at the same time is pinning all its hopes on being part of what we quickly came to realize is an internationally popular “Twilight Tour.” Various scenes in the books take place here, it being the largest town near Forks nearly 2 hours away. That being said, it certainly wasn't overrun by tourists.
We walked around easily and didn't have to stand in line to take pictures of restaurants or bookstores or a movie theater that are mentioned in the series. The requisite “Dazzled by Twilight” gift store was well-stocked and seemed to have a pretty steady stream of estrogen with the occasional shot of reluctant testosterone uncomfortably hanging out in the corner. But it was nothing like the Forks' store of the two-location chain.
We ducked into the Italian restaurant where the two main characters have their first date. It smelled delicious. There was not a crowd to be found in the entire town...except here. “It will be about an hour and fifteen minutes for a table,” the young woman apologized, sizing me up as a likely Twilighter. My hunger outweighing my fandom, we bailed and ate at a tasty Mexican place down the street.
We took a break from trying to match reality with fantasy to check out the stunning Olympic Mountains and take a day trip over to Victoria, British Columbia. We elected not to pay the $100 to allow our car to join us, so we spent a lovely, sunny day wandering around the provincial capitol, the harbour, and the Parliament building, promising ourselves we will return for a dedicated vacation sometime in the near future.
The next day we awoke to unexpected sunshine and headed southwest towards Forks. The scenery was gorgeous, with moss-strewn trees and glacial lakes and green, green, green. At one stop, I could actually smell the green. It was succulent - like freshly snapped aloe vera - mixed with the slightly woody, fibrous scent of grape stems. I almost got dizzy from breathing so deeply.
The relaxing, meandering, quiet wander across the Olympic Peninsula came to an abrupt stop as we entered the town of Forks. Population 3,175, not counting the daily 10% increase of dazzled tourists.
The town is basically one main street – the highway – dotted with non-chain services. Aside from a couple of gas stations, I didn't recognize a single major chain. No big grocery stores, no fast food, no hotels with priority clubs, no big boxes of any sort. It had one stop light at which you could watch the trying-to-go-about-their-business logging locals intermingle with the barely-containing-their-excitement adolescent tourists. We parked and wandered around a bit.
The main Twilight gift store was dizzying (there were at least 3 stores proudly hocking Twilight gear). It was crowded and over-heated and under-stocked. I thought about buying a gift for a friend so I asked about a displayed t-shirt. It was among the many that were on back-order. We then walked over to a pharmacy and again were greeted with crowds swarming hungrily around the Forks t-shirts and souvenirs. For a mere $22 I could buy a shirt whose silk screen already seemed to be wearing off. Another $8 could get me a fork with a little “Forks, WA” tag attached. I declined both.
We drove over to the high school – another key location in the books – and waited patiently while a car of teenage girls and a mom took pictures of the sign. Although we didn't see that exact group again, we saw that configuration of Adolescent Girls and Coolest Mom Ever over and over.
After Rob took my picture, we stepped out of the way and chatted with an old man who revealed he worked at the Visitors Center on the other side of town. Seemed he occasionally hung out at various places to take pictures for people and answer questions. He was amazed to have met people from all over the world in the past year. “Look at a map and find the tiniest island south of Hawaii. Yup, they've been here, too.” A typical weekend gets about 1000 signatures in the Visitor Center guest book. “That's only the ones who sign!” He seemed excited and proud that his small town has become an international destination. I asked him how the locals felt about all the attention. “Well, it's great for the merchants, that's for sure. But some people wish all of them [Twilighters] would go away,” he revealed with a sweep of his hand.
While that was certainly understandable, the man's comment was the one and only hint we got that all the visitors were nothing short of totally embraced by the locals. All four of Forks' main restaurants featured Twilight-themed entrees (the Bella Burger, EdBread). Maps of the town with key spots noted were handed out for free. Souvenirs were everywhere and we spotted several small buses leading tours. We didn't stop by but supposedly the Chief of Police happily pretends his name is Charlie Swan and does his best to answer questions about his fictional daughter, Bella. According to one local: “We really try to make them feel welcome. We treat fictional characters as real people. We've had a lot of parents say, 'Thanks for making it fun for her.'”
After grabbing some pizza and snapping a few more photos, I was ready to leave the feeding frenzy of Forks and head to our final Olympic Peninsula destination: the Hoh Rain Forest. Rob had been once before and loved it, all drippy and cold and eerie and so green that he couldn't figure out which way to orient his pictures when he got them back. Given our travel history -- what with a flood in Kauai, a 3-day power outage on the Oregon coast, a bout with Norwalk on a cruise – any guesses what we found in the rain forest?? Yep, that's right. Not a drop of rain. Dry as a bone. Sunshine and shadows. I could have been wearing shorts. No need for the extra pair of dry shoes. We're thinking we'll head back in either November or January. Just our luck, it will be closed due to flooding when we finally get there.
We're just about ready to leave Astoria, Oregon to head home to Woodhaven. But not before we see if we can find the school from “Kindergarten Cop” so I can snap a picture.
After months of resisting, I finally bowed to girlfriend peer pressure and started reading the “Twilight” books. It's a romance series of sorts written for swoony teenage girls about drop-dead gorgeous vampires. I'm really not much of a romance reader, and I'm definitely not a vampire fan, so it wasn't until I was desperate for another distraction that I finally relented. My hair stylist is going to be thrilled at my next appointment to discover we can FINALLY chat about Edward vs. Jacob.
The books are set in the real-life town of Forks, Washington, up in the northwest thumb of my moist home state. I was looking at a map one night, locating it exactly, when I said to Rob, “Look – Highway 101 loops all around the Olympic Peninsula. That would be a fun road trip sometime.” And faster than you can say “early retirement” we had planned our route, made hotel and ferry reservations, and were trekking northward.
Our first stop was Port Angeles, right along a strait of water that separates us from the folks who say “eh” and have really cheap prescription drugs. It was a sleepy little town that looks to be dying a slow death while at the same time is pinning all its hopes on being part of what we quickly came to realize is an internationally popular “Twilight Tour.” Various scenes in the books take place here, it being the largest town near Forks nearly 2 hours away. That being said, it certainly wasn't overrun by tourists.
We walked around easily and didn't have to stand in line to take pictures of restaurants or bookstores or a movie theater that are mentioned in the series. The requisite “Dazzled by Twilight” gift store was well-stocked and seemed to have a pretty steady stream of estrogen with the occasional shot of reluctant testosterone uncomfortably hanging out in the corner. But it was nothing like the Forks' store of the two-location chain.
We ducked into the Italian restaurant where the two main characters have their first date. It smelled delicious. There was not a crowd to be found in the entire town...except here. “It will be about an hour and fifteen minutes for a table,” the young woman apologized, sizing me up as a likely Twilighter. My hunger outweighing my fandom, we bailed and ate at a tasty Mexican place down the street.
We took a break from trying to match reality with fantasy to check out the stunning Olympic Mountains and take a day trip over to Victoria, British Columbia. We elected not to pay the $100 to allow our car to join us, so we spent a lovely, sunny day wandering around the provincial capitol, the harbour, and the Parliament building, promising ourselves we will return for a dedicated vacation sometime in the near future.
The next day we awoke to unexpected sunshine and headed southwest towards Forks. The scenery was gorgeous, with moss-strewn trees and glacial lakes and green, green, green. At one stop, I could actually smell the green. It was succulent - like freshly snapped aloe vera - mixed with the slightly woody, fibrous scent of grape stems. I almost got dizzy from breathing so deeply.
The relaxing, meandering, quiet wander across the Olympic Peninsula came to an abrupt stop as we entered the town of Forks. Population 3,175, not counting the daily 10% increase of dazzled tourists.
The town is basically one main street – the highway – dotted with non-chain services. Aside from a couple of gas stations, I didn't recognize a single major chain. No big grocery stores, no fast food, no hotels with priority clubs, no big boxes of any sort. It had one stop light at which you could watch the trying-to-go-about-their-business logging locals intermingle with the barely-containing-their-excitement adolescent tourists. We parked and wandered around a bit.
The main Twilight gift store was dizzying (there were at least 3 stores proudly hocking Twilight gear). It was crowded and over-heated and under-stocked. I thought about buying a gift for a friend so I asked about a displayed t-shirt. It was among the many that were on back-order. We then walked over to a pharmacy and again were greeted with crowds swarming hungrily around the Forks t-shirts and souvenirs. For a mere $22 I could buy a shirt whose silk screen already seemed to be wearing off. Another $8 could get me a fork with a little “Forks, WA” tag attached. I declined both.
We drove over to the high school – another key location in the books – and waited patiently while a car of teenage girls and a mom took pictures of the sign. Although we didn't see that exact group again, we saw that configuration of Adolescent Girls and Coolest Mom Ever over and over.
After Rob took my picture, we stepped out of the way and chatted with an old man who revealed he worked at the Visitors Center on the other side of town. Seemed he occasionally hung out at various places to take pictures for people and answer questions. He was amazed to have met people from all over the world in the past year. “Look at a map and find the tiniest island south of Hawaii. Yup, they've been here, too.” A typical weekend gets about 1000 signatures in the Visitor Center guest book. “That's only the ones who sign!” He seemed excited and proud that his small town has become an international destination. I asked him how the locals felt about all the attention. “Well, it's great for the merchants, that's for sure. But some people wish all of them [Twilighters] would go away,” he revealed with a sweep of his hand.
While that was certainly understandable, the man's comment was the one and only hint we got that all the visitors were nothing short of totally embraced by the locals. All four of Forks' main restaurants featured Twilight-themed entrees (the Bella Burger, EdBread). Maps of the town with key spots noted were handed out for free. Souvenirs were everywhere and we spotted several small buses leading tours. We didn't stop by but supposedly the Chief of Police happily pretends his name is Charlie Swan and does his best to answer questions about his fictional daughter, Bella. According to one local: “We really try to make them feel welcome. We treat fictional characters as real people. We've had a lot of parents say, 'Thanks for making it fun for her.'”
After grabbing some pizza and snapping a few more photos, I was ready to leave the feeding frenzy of Forks and head to our final Olympic Peninsula destination: the Hoh Rain Forest. Rob had been once before and loved it, all drippy and cold and eerie and so green that he couldn't figure out which way to orient his pictures when he got them back. Given our travel history -- what with a flood in Kauai, a 3-day power outage on the Oregon coast, a bout with Norwalk on a cruise – any guesses what we found in the rain forest?? Yep, that's right. Not a drop of rain. Dry as a bone. Sunshine and shadows. I could have been wearing shorts. No need for the extra pair of dry shoes. We're thinking we'll head back in either November or January. Just our luck, it will be closed due to flooding when we finally get there.
We're just about ready to leave Astoria, Oregon to head home to Woodhaven. But not before we see if we can find the school from “Kindergarten Cop” so I can snap a picture.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
We used to pass a college on our way home
It looks like Knickerland might be officially closed. We’re a bit concerned here at Woodhaven.
Knickerland is a single-wide trailer with lots of deferred maintenance that we pass on our way to and from Woodhaven. It has never been clear how many people live on the half-dozen acres. I’m guessing maybe two men. I have never seen any women there. Occasionally would-be pets appear and disappear. Mostly dogs. And a chicken. And a couple times, a duck.
Knickerland got its name when one day as I approached, I noticed a slender, hairy man with dark green sweatpants pushed up to his knees running with a go-cart in my lane. It’s a two-lane country road where most folks keep it down to 50mph so go-carting is not expected nor advised. Particularly when one is running behind the cart instead of driving it.
As I slowed down, I noticed the man was running with enough speed that his dingy white tennis shoe flew off towards a ditch. Bare-footed, he hopped in the go-cart and tried to steer it into a nearby fire station parking lot.
When I got home and described the scene to Rob, I said, “The guy was wearing sweatpant knickers.” And thus “Knickerland” was born.
It soon became part of my routine to check out what is happening at Knickerland when I drive by. The array of things that appear and disappear from the property is fascinating and unpredictable. Among the treasures: a Partridge Family-style school bus; a teepee without the canvas; an old Mercedes; a wheelchair; laundry hanging in a rain storm; a homemade painting of a purple bird on a large sheet of plywood; a hot tub shell; an iron gate attached to nothing; and most recently, a boat of the cabin-cruiser variety. Interesting, their predilection for modes of transportation.
The arrival of the boat is particularly noteworthy since as of about a week ago, there is a chain across the driveway with a spray-painted sign that says “NO TRESPASSING CLAYTON MOVED” Some windows and siding are missing, so it’s not clear if the place has been vandalized or if Clayton took a few things with him on his way to his next homestead. But it was a relief today to discover that even though Clayton and his duck may be gone, the ebb and flow of redneck paraphernalia may linger on.
Knickerland is a single-wide trailer with lots of deferred maintenance that we pass on our way to and from Woodhaven. It has never been clear how many people live on the half-dozen acres. I’m guessing maybe two men. I have never seen any women there. Occasionally would-be pets appear and disappear. Mostly dogs. And a chicken. And a couple times, a duck.
Knickerland got its name when one day as I approached, I noticed a slender, hairy man with dark green sweatpants pushed up to his knees running with a go-cart in my lane. It’s a two-lane country road where most folks keep it down to 50mph so go-carting is not expected nor advised. Particularly when one is running behind the cart instead of driving it.
As I slowed down, I noticed the man was running with enough speed that his dingy white tennis shoe flew off towards a ditch. Bare-footed, he hopped in the go-cart and tried to steer it into a nearby fire station parking lot.
When I got home and described the scene to Rob, I said, “The guy was wearing sweatpant knickers.” And thus “Knickerland” was born.
It soon became part of my routine to check out what is happening at Knickerland when I drive by. The array of things that appear and disappear from the property is fascinating and unpredictable. Among the treasures: a Partridge Family-style school bus; a teepee without the canvas; an old Mercedes; a wheelchair; laundry hanging in a rain storm; a homemade painting of a purple bird on a large sheet of plywood; a hot tub shell; an iron gate attached to nothing; and most recently, a boat of the cabin-cruiser variety. Interesting, their predilection for modes of transportation.
The arrival of the boat is particularly noteworthy since as of about a week ago, there is a chain across the driveway with a spray-painted sign that says “NO TRESPASSING CLAYTON MOVED” Some windows and siding are missing, so it’s not clear if the place has been vandalized or if Clayton took a few things with him on his way to his next homestead. But it was a relief today to discover that even though Clayton and his duck may be gone, the ebb and flow of redneck paraphernalia may linger on.
Friday, June 5, 2009
One last Brad post. Thank you for your indulgence.
Thank God for time.
We are doing better. We are still very sad but we feel like we are crawling out from the depths. We’ve been grateful for distractions, like a weekend away with friends, a sudden need to take on big outdoor and indoor projects, and an intense thunderstorm.
Our friends and family have been nothing short of amazing. We are touched and overwhelmed by how many have shared their tears with us. We are humbled and grateful that so many understand and respect what Brad meant to us. And we have been comforted by wonderful advice (“Grieve well and thoroughly. It pays off.”), empathetic stories, and a spectacular cat made for us by a 6-year-old out of a toilet paper roll, construction paper, and pipe cleaners. Until we got Brad’s ashes back a few days ago, it sat on the mantel in our bedroom. It now has a place of honor on a memento shelf.
A number of people have gently asked if we plan to get another cat. Absolutely, yes. While Brad has a huge place in our hearts, we know we have lots of love to give and there is room for more kitties. We are Cat People who need a pride. But we also don’t want to short-circuit our grieving by getting another kitten too soon. As painful as this process is, we want to honor it and ourselves. And Brad. Although we suspect he's too busy running around outside in Kitty Heaven thinking, "Why didn't they ever let me go outside before? This is AWESOME!!" Rob suggested maybe we start looking around Labor Day weekend for our next cat or cats, since that worked out so well with Brad. We’ll see. One thing we know for certain, though, is that we are going to be very discerning in finding our next kitty. From experience, we know that we will know when we find the right one if we just pay attention.
How Brad Came to Us
Rob had been doing a lot of international business travel and I was getting tired of talking to our apartment’s walls. We had finally saved up the $500 pet deposit and were ready, after not quite 3 years of marriage, to expand our family to three.
I had a 4-day weekend off from work and Rob was heading to Scotland again. As I drove him to the airport that Saturday morning, we reviewed what we had decided: a male kitten, short hair, silver and black striped. After seeing Rob off, I headed straight for the San Francisco SPCA.
I approached the desk and said that I was there to adopt a kitten. Expecting to be welcomed with grateful, open arms for coming to the rescue, I was instead handed a form asking about my lifestyle, home situation, and financial expectations for caring for an animal. As the form was being handed to me, the SPCA Nazi asked, “And do you plan to declaw the cat?”
“Uhhh….no.”
“Why not?”
“Ummm…it seems like it would hurt and that’s what scratching posts are for?"
“OK. Fill this out.”
Completely unaware that I had successfully passed the official Stance on De-Clawing Interrogation, I was soon ushered into the cat area. There were several rooms of cages and high-pitched mews echoed off the linoleum floor.
I wandered around slowly, looking for a silver and black tabby. I eventually found one, cowering in the back corner of a cage. I tried to coax it to come to the front but he wouldn’t budge. A little bit later, I noticed a fluffy black paw reaching out between the metal rungs of a nearby cage, inviting me to play. We were finger-sparring when one of the volunteers came by.
"Would you like to hold him?”
“Huh? Oh. Umm. Sure, why not?”
The cat was black and had long hair. All wrong. This wasn’t my cat but I figured I could give him a little attention as I looked around some more.
So me and this little black fuzz ball wandered around the rest of the cat rooms, looking for a silver and black tabby. The black kitten purred and played with my fingers and happily let me carry him around in the crook of my arm. We couldn’t find any other silver and black tabbies so we went back to the first one. Still cowering. As I stood there wondering how to convince the seemingly perfect cat to notice me, the volunteer came back.
“So you want to take this one then?” he asked, pointing at the little black lump purring on my shoulder.
In a surreal moment I can still feel vividly, of speaking without intending to, I looked at Brad and said, “Yep, he’s the one.”
Why he is named Brad
My grandma was known for having trouble remembering names. It was a huge family joke and it provided lots of laughter, including from Grandma. Although she might call you by the wrong name, it was always a name from within the family. I was often called Peggy, Jennifer, Ginger, or Marion – my mom, cousins, and aunt. My dad, uncle, great uncle, and grandpa all got to share their names, too.
Rob and I only dated for about 4 months before we got engaged, so when my fiancé of just two weeks accompanied me to a family reunion celebrating Grandma and Grandpa’s 50th wedding anniversary, nobody had heard anything about this Rob guy.
The reunion was just a few days long but that was plenty of time for Grandma to start calling Rob the wrong name. But for the first time in family history, Grandma made up a completely new name. She kept calling him Brad. There was no “Brad” anywhere in the family! This of course prompted even more laughter. For years and years to come.
After almost 3 years of occasionally being called “Brad,” Rob and I thought it would be fun to make an honest woman out of Grandma. Thankfully, our new kitten’s personality just didn’t suit the somewhat formal and punny “Phydeaux” name we had chosen as an alternate. So somewhere along Highway 101 before heading across the Dumbarton Bridge on the way home from the SPCA, “Brad” officially joined the family.
For the next 13 years, Grandma still couldn’t get Rob’s and Brad’s names straight.
“And how’s that Brad doing?” she would ask on the phone. “How’s his job?"
“Oh, he’s doing great, Grandma! No hairballs this week and he’s using his litter box.”
At Grandma’s funeral, Rob got up to say a few words. “Hi, I’m Rob. Some of you know me as Brad.”…
There’s a very good chance that our next cat will be named “Wilma.”
We are doing better. We are still very sad but we feel like we are crawling out from the depths. We’ve been grateful for distractions, like a weekend away with friends, a sudden need to take on big outdoor and indoor projects, and an intense thunderstorm.
Our friends and family have been nothing short of amazing. We are touched and overwhelmed by how many have shared their tears with us. We are humbled and grateful that so many understand and respect what Brad meant to us. And we have been comforted by wonderful advice (“Grieve well and thoroughly. It pays off.”), empathetic stories, and a spectacular cat made for us by a 6-year-old out of a toilet paper roll, construction paper, and pipe cleaners. Until we got Brad’s ashes back a few days ago, it sat on the mantel in our bedroom. It now has a place of honor on a memento shelf.
A number of people have gently asked if we plan to get another cat. Absolutely, yes. While Brad has a huge place in our hearts, we know we have lots of love to give and there is room for more kitties. We are Cat People who need a pride. But we also don’t want to short-circuit our grieving by getting another kitten too soon. As painful as this process is, we want to honor it and ourselves. And Brad. Although we suspect he's too busy running around outside in Kitty Heaven thinking, "Why didn't they ever let me go outside before? This is AWESOME!!" Rob suggested maybe we start looking around Labor Day weekend for our next cat or cats, since that worked out so well with Brad. We’ll see. One thing we know for certain, though, is that we are going to be very discerning in finding our next kitty. From experience, we know that we will know when we find the right one if we just pay attention.
How Brad Came to Us
Rob had been doing a lot of international business travel and I was getting tired of talking to our apartment’s walls. We had finally saved up the $500 pet deposit and were ready, after not quite 3 years of marriage, to expand our family to three.
I had a 4-day weekend off from work and Rob was heading to Scotland again. As I drove him to the airport that Saturday morning, we reviewed what we had decided: a male kitten, short hair, silver and black striped. After seeing Rob off, I headed straight for the San Francisco SPCA.
I approached the desk and said that I was there to adopt a kitten. Expecting to be welcomed with grateful, open arms for coming to the rescue, I was instead handed a form asking about my lifestyle, home situation, and financial expectations for caring for an animal. As the form was being handed to me, the SPCA Nazi asked, “And do you plan to declaw the cat?”
“Uhhh….no.”
“Why not?”
“Ummm…it seems like it would hurt and that’s what scratching posts are for?"
“OK. Fill this out.”
Completely unaware that I had successfully passed the official Stance on De-Clawing Interrogation, I was soon ushered into the cat area. There were several rooms of cages and high-pitched mews echoed off the linoleum floor.
I wandered around slowly, looking for a silver and black tabby. I eventually found one, cowering in the back corner of a cage. I tried to coax it to come to the front but he wouldn’t budge. A little bit later, I noticed a fluffy black paw reaching out between the metal rungs of a nearby cage, inviting me to play. We were finger-sparring when one of the volunteers came by.
"Would you like to hold him?”
“Huh? Oh. Umm. Sure, why not?”
The cat was black and had long hair. All wrong. This wasn’t my cat but I figured I could give him a little attention as I looked around some more.
So me and this little black fuzz ball wandered around the rest of the cat rooms, looking for a silver and black tabby. The black kitten purred and played with my fingers and happily let me carry him around in the crook of my arm. We couldn’t find any other silver and black tabbies so we went back to the first one. Still cowering. As I stood there wondering how to convince the seemingly perfect cat to notice me, the volunteer came back.
“So you want to take this one then?” he asked, pointing at the little black lump purring on my shoulder.
In a surreal moment I can still feel vividly, of speaking without intending to, I looked at Brad and said, “Yep, he’s the one.”
Why he is named Brad
My grandma was known for having trouble remembering names. It was a huge family joke and it provided lots of laughter, including from Grandma. Although she might call you by the wrong name, it was always a name from within the family. I was often called Peggy, Jennifer, Ginger, or Marion – my mom, cousins, and aunt. My dad, uncle, great uncle, and grandpa all got to share their names, too.
Rob and I only dated for about 4 months before we got engaged, so when my fiancé of just two weeks accompanied me to a family reunion celebrating Grandma and Grandpa’s 50th wedding anniversary, nobody had heard anything about this Rob guy.
The reunion was just a few days long but that was plenty of time for Grandma to start calling Rob the wrong name. But for the first time in family history, Grandma made up a completely new name. She kept calling him Brad. There was no “Brad” anywhere in the family! This of course prompted even more laughter. For years and years to come.
After almost 3 years of occasionally being called “Brad,” Rob and I thought it would be fun to make an honest woman out of Grandma. Thankfully, our new kitten’s personality just didn’t suit the somewhat formal and punny “Phydeaux” name we had chosen as an alternate. So somewhere along Highway 101 before heading across the Dumbarton Bridge on the way home from the SPCA, “Brad” officially joined the family.
For the next 13 years, Grandma still couldn’t get Rob’s and Brad’s names straight.
“And how’s that Brad doing?” she would ask on the phone. “How’s his job?"
“Oh, he’s doing great, Grandma! No hairballs this week and he’s using his litter box.”
At Grandma’s funeral, Rob got up to say a few words. “Hi, I’m Rob. Some of you know me as Brad.”…
There’s a very good chance that our next cat will be named “Wilma.”
Monday, June 1, 2009
A guest blogger: Rob
We bought a big house. But it never really felt big until Brad died.
We had to put Brad down. We don’t know what had a hold of him, but it was moving fast and taking him quickly. He was so clearly in pain, and some of the things that he so dearly loved - like riding on my shoulder - were too painful for him to do. He had stopped eating and drinking. It was all he could do to make it onto the bed. He didn’t even fight when we packed him up for our last trip to the vet, and that was not him. Looking back, we can see signs of his decline going back a few weeks, but it really all crashed in a week. And how can you say good-bye to 13 pounds of black fur and unconditional love, even given a week?
This is weird. How do I wake up without him? I can look at the calendar and know that I was married almost 3 years before he joined us, but I don’t remember being married and cat-less. I almost don’t know what to do. How can we get going in the morning without 8 legs and 3 baths? Isn’t there a law against it? Worse than that, this is the first time in this house – in 5 years – I’ve woken up without him here. I can’t even claim that with Toni. He’s been a fixture, like the lights. Or the bed covers, which he could mimic well.
And later this afternoon, when I want to be lazy, what do I use as an excuse? Now I just look like a slob instead of a friend to the cat. He was so good at napping exactly where and when I wanted him to, or slowing me down when I had been working too hard. He tried to do the same with Toni, but sometimes she wasn’t as ready to listen. He would persist – it was his gift to get us in tune with him.
He made us cat-like, and we made him a third loved-one in the house. We joked about being Big Cat and Mom Cat from day one, but looking back we had become like that over time without noticing. Since he was with us, we became more real, more present, more in tune to our true selves, much as one would see in a cat. What creature knows itself and caters to its own needs as well as a cat? We learned to take care to rest in the sunbeams, to purr and show appreciation, and to look out for each other as partners. And we made this attitude spread to the rest of our life. Our move out of California, with all the little decisions that built up to it, derive from being cat-like – being present and in-tuned with what we needed. We became more real and human, all because we followed the lead of the cat.
We made sure that we didn’t treat him as a person or as family, which probably surprises a number of people. He wasn’t family – the three of us were a Pride. He was a cat, and we never forgot that and we always respected that fact. But we did treat him as a loved one, beyond just being a pet. We spoiled him, and he spoiled us with love and attention. We were a group, moving together but always independent. We didn’t always need to be together, but we always knew where each other was and were comforted by that knowledge. Given a choice, we’d be together, but we each knew our place, knowing when each needed attention and each needed space. Toni and I were family, but the three of us were a pride.
And now where is he? I’m so lost.
No longer will I see his tail pass in front of a table or down the hall -- tall, strong, and happy like a flag being flown proudly in a full breeze. No longer will I have to figure out how to type with him sitting on my arms or biting my fingers. Now I realize I should have typed less and pet more. No longer will I hear him jingle down the stairs, or in from his food bowl. I won’t even hear him jump down from the counter when he was being bad. I still expect him around every corner. I counted – there are a dozen places where I keep looking for him, where I have to talk myself into knowing that he won’t be there before I look.
I cry sad and happy tears at the same time. I think of what I’m missing, but I also think about how even in his last hours, in great pain, he worked to care for me and Toni. She explained that time so much better than I can, so I won’t. But how noble he was in those moments – what a lesson from God to learn. Showing us how to care for each other to the end. How to love to the end. How to be a friend, and a companion, and a partner to the end. And how to trust that we would do what we could for him. We did – as awful as it was. We took that pain away the only way possible, and without that choice the pain would have only increased. I again cry happy and sad tears as I think of him going to sleep on Toni’s lap for the last time, as the pain faded in his body, and his head sank in his familiar, content way – he was with us and knew he was cared for until the end.
How’d this house get so big so quickly?
We had to put Brad down. We don’t know what had a hold of him, but it was moving fast and taking him quickly. He was so clearly in pain, and some of the things that he so dearly loved - like riding on my shoulder - were too painful for him to do. He had stopped eating and drinking. It was all he could do to make it onto the bed. He didn’t even fight when we packed him up for our last trip to the vet, and that was not him. Looking back, we can see signs of his decline going back a few weeks, but it really all crashed in a week. And how can you say good-bye to 13 pounds of black fur and unconditional love, even given a week?
This is weird. How do I wake up without him? I can look at the calendar and know that I was married almost 3 years before he joined us, but I don’t remember being married and cat-less. I almost don’t know what to do. How can we get going in the morning without 8 legs and 3 baths? Isn’t there a law against it? Worse than that, this is the first time in this house – in 5 years – I’ve woken up without him here. I can’t even claim that with Toni. He’s been a fixture, like the lights. Or the bed covers, which he could mimic well.
And later this afternoon, when I want to be lazy, what do I use as an excuse? Now I just look like a slob instead of a friend to the cat. He was so good at napping exactly where and when I wanted him to, or slowing me down when I had been working too hard. He tried to do the same with Toni, but sometimes she wasn’t as ready to listen. He would persist – it was his gift to get us in tune with him.
He made us cat-like, and we made him a third loved-one in the house. We joked about being Big Cat and Mom Cat from day one, but looking back we had become like that over time without noticing. Since he was with us, we became more real, more present, more in tune to our true selves, much as one would see in a cat. What creature knows itself and caters to its own needs as well as a cat? We learned to take care to rest in the sunbeams, to purr and show appreciation, and to look out for each other as partners. And we made this attitude spread to the rest of our life. Our move out of California, with all the little decisions that built up to it, derive from being cat-like – being present and in-tuned with what we needed. We became more real and human, all because we followed the lead of the cat.
We made sure that we didn’t treat him as a person or as family, which probably surprises a number of people. He wasn’t family – the three of us were a Pride. He was a cat, and we never forgot that and we always respected that fact. But we did treat him as a loved one, beyond just being a pet. We spoiled him, and he spoiled us with love and attention. We were a group, moving together but always independent. We didn’t always need to be together, but we always knew where each other was and were comforted by that knowledge. Given a choice, we’d be together, but we each knew our place, knowing when each needed attention and each needed space. Toni and I were family, but the three of us were a pride.
And now where is he? I’m so lost.
No longer will I see his tail pass in front of a table or down the hall -- tall, strong, and happy like a flag being flown proudly in a full breeze. No longer will I have to figure out how to type with him sitting on my arms or biting my fingers. Now I realize I should have typed less and pet more. No longer will I hear him jingle down the stairs, or in from his food bowl. I won’t even hear him jump down from the counter when he was being bad. I still expect him around every corner. I counted – there are a dozen places where I keep looking for him, where I have to talk myself into knowing that he won’t be there before I look.
I cry sad and happy tears at the same time. I think of what I’m missing, but I also think about how even in his last hours, in great pain, he worked to care for me and Toni. She explained that time so much better than I can, so I won’t. But how noble he was in those moments – what a lesson from God to learn. Showing us how to care for each other to the end. How to love to the end. How to be a friend, and a companion, and a partner to the end. And how to trust that we would do what we could for him. We did – as awful as it was. We took that pain away the only way possible, and without that choice the pain would have only increased. I again cry happy and sad tears as I think of him going to sleep on Toni’s lap for the last time, as the pain faded in his body, and his head sank in his familiar, content way – he was with us and knew he was cared for until the end.
How’d this house get so big so quickly?
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